I felt different, but still discontent. I felt like me, but new and improved a little bit. It would fade over the course of a few hours, until at the end of the day I was back where I started.
It was symbolic how the door closed and my mind and mouth opened. I poured my soul on the floor, stirred it around with my nervous feet and jiggling knees, and put it back inside when the hour was finished. Sometimes, it was seasoned with tears and wadded Kleenex before it went back inside. I sometimes left with reddened eyes and flushed cheeks, but with my soul still inside me mostly unchanged.
She only wanted to see me once a week, and I looked forward to the soul purge. I asked to see her more often, and she said I didn’t need it. Then, she said I didn’t need to come at all anymore.
"I still feel bad," I said.
"You’re better," she said. "You don’t need me anymore."
So, I don’t go there anymore. After the therapy, I feel a little different. But, I don’t feel better.